Can You Hear The Birds?

April 14, 2004

When I was in New Jersey for Easter, there was a huge traffic jam on Route 78. I was in the car with my mom, dad and brother. We were going to my cousin's house for a big extended family dinner. My dad drove, my mom sat in the passenger seat, and my brother and I were in the back. My sister and her two kids followed behind in my sister's car.

As we crept along the highway at one mile per hour, I sent a text message to my 15-year-old niece's cell phone: “good times, good times.”

She sent a message back: “happy fucking easter.”

My dad kept eyeing the cars that were bailing out of the mess and banging U turns across the grass median. You could sense my mother's apprehension about that idea. "We don't want to get stuck," she kept saying.

The median had a fairly steep dip to it, and it's certainly possible that if my dad chose to go for it, that we could've gotten stuck. "I know I could make it," Dad said, "But there are so many cops around. I'd hate to get a ticket."

There were cop cars buzzing back and forth in both directions on the shoulder. My brother suddenly rolled down the window. "Listen to those birds!" he said. I'd noticed a huge flock of birds speckling the sky a few seconds earlier, but I hadn't heard anything. There seemed to be a bunch of them perched in the trees that lined the side of the road. Apparently, they were making a racket. My brother leaned slightly toward the open window. "Hear that?" he said.

I couldn't hear them. "You could hear the birds even when the window was rolled up?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "Well, not as good as when I rolled the window down."

I figured that much. "My ears are fucked up," I told him. "Did mom tell you about that?"

"Yeah, actually, she did." He rolled the window back up, and we sat quietly for a moment. My brother's arms rested on his thighs with his hands cocked back at the wrists and his fingers moving nervously as if he were playing a piano or typing on a keyboard. "Does that affect listening to music?" he asked.

I just shrugged.

"Can anyone read that sign?" my dad called from the front seat. There was a yellow road sign several yards ahead, but no one's eyes were sharp enough to read it. Except for my brother's, that is. He burst out laughing as he told us, "It says, Congested Area ."

My dad turned on the radio and tried to tune in to Highway Information, but the static was so overwhelming that it was just noise.

"You guys can't read that?" my brother asked about the sign.

I didn't answer. I just leaned my head against the glass and stared up at the birds.